


Spying, Sketching, and Other Fine Hobbies

by flirtygaybrit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bath Houses, Dandelion's Political Escapades... Or Not, Established Relationship, M/M, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: Happenstance brings Geralt and Jaskier together in the seaside city of Gors Velen, but a coded message causes Geralt to question Jaskier's loyalties.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 34
Kudos: 428
Collections: Best Geralt





	Spying, Sketching, and Other Fine Hobbies

Jaskier had barely caught his breath when he collapsed into the seat next to Geralt, already procuring a bag of coins that jingled merrily when tossed atop the table. The wooden chair protested under his weight from the sheer force of his sitting but Jaskier didn’t seem to notice, occupied as he was with ensuring that his lute touched neither the muddy floor nor the sticky spot on the tabletop that looked and smelled like drying jam left by the table’s previous occupant. He was loose-limbed and grinning and his chest, still puffed up with pride, heaved with each exaggerated breath.

It would have been easy to imagine that Jaskier had just stumbled out of a spectacularly athletic sexual encounter, exhausted as he looked, but Geralt knew that this was a satisfaction of a different nature entirely: it was the satisfaction that a moderately-talented bard felt after riling up a moderately-sized crowd in a moderately-sized tavern with upbeat music and spectacular showmanship, which Jaskier had done so sufficiently as to leave women hooting and applauding, men roaring and raising their tankards and thumping the tables, and at least two babies, one inside and one passing by outdoors (thankfully), bawling and squalling, their sole desire seemingly being to add their voices to the crowd.

The babies didn’t typically give gratuities to the renowned minstrels who excited them so, but the parents were perfectly happy to pay up in their jolly moods. Geralt tolerated the din from the furthest possible corner of the room and tried not to let anyone notice him contemplating which part of his supper would make the best ear-plugs.

“Ah,” Jaskier sighed grandly, lacing his fingers behind his head, “there’s really nothing like it in the world, Geralt, is there?”

He was positively radiant, still riding the high of his successful rousing of the tavern’s patrons and all but beaming at the ones who had likely left the biggest tips. It was obvious that more than a few of them, mostly the drunken ones still slurring broken bits of song and yelling out their favourite titles, were clearly still interested in hearing an encore from the great poet, but it was also obvious that each of them, man or woman, drunk or sober, would inevitably rethink approaching Jaskier upon seeing the company he kept. 

It suited Geralt just fine to be left alone, but he would have bet any amount of money that Jaskier was only keeping quiet about the lack of visible autograph line because he wanted Geralt to share in his merriment, and Geralt rarely was merry about autographs. Tonight was, after all, the first time they’d seen one another since the spring, and it had been Jaskier who had discovered him and insisted they grab a bite and catch up in the first place—before the lute came out, anyway, and then the catching-up had needed to wait.

“Nothing like making money?”

“Nothing like making an impact.” Jaskier leaned forward and, reaching over the jam stain, plucked the bag of money off of the table. “This should get us a room and a few meals somewhere nicer, at least. And a good, hot bath. And some laundering. And,” he said, lifting his chin and squinting suspiciously in the direction of the middle-aged man standing behind the bar on the opposite end of the room, “I haven’t looked inside, obviously, but if the townsfolk have been kind and this bag is full of crowns and not groats”—he lowered his voice for this—“maybe a few other luxuries will be in our immediate future. If it’s groats, well, we’ll simply make do. Maybe you can step outside and hunt a rogue pastry down in the market, hm? Oh, don’t make faces, Geralt, I really am glad to see you. It feels like it’s been forever, doesn’t it?”

He flashed a devilish grin, looking every bit the cat that got the cream as he stuffed the bag into a pocket hidden within the frills of his shirt, then plucked a piece of uneaten bread from Geralt’s plate.

His eyes never left the crowd all the while. It didn’t escape Geralt’s notice, but it was easy at the time to assume Jaskier was simply basking in the attention as he often did. He practically seemed to glow when one looked at him in the correct light. Right now, the glow could be attributed to a light sheen of sweat. Geralt did not envy him his long sleeves.

“Why aren’t you over there instead of here?” Geralt asked, pushing his plate a few inches to the side. “Aren’t your adoring fans waiting to flutter their eyelashes and get you drunk so you won’t notice if they don’t leave a tip after your next song?”

“Ha, eager to be rid of me so soon? I’ve only just sat down, we’ve still got all night for you to make excuses to go off on your own.” Jaskier dipped the bread in a bit of gravy, gave his soggy morsel some thought, then dipped it in again. “If you have somewhere to be, my friend, don’t let me drag you down. I have a few more tricks and distractions up my sleeve if you need me to waste time. I suspect Gors Velen will have plenty to offer you, if you’re planning on spending the night. Which I assume we are.”

And likely Geralt would, if grudgingly. Although he would have preferred to be in a quieter place, it didn’t bother Geralt that Jaskier had drawn even more attention to him than a witcher naturally attracted—not enough to leave, anyway—and he had long ago ceased complaining that Jaskier only ever sat on the same side of the table with him as though expecting that Geralt would like to conspire over supper like gossiping hens (or was perhaps concerned that someone might try to stab him between the shoulders). It didn’t even bother Geralt that they seemed to have, without negotiating, picked up the habit of sharing food, as he could always expect that half of what the picky performer took from his plate would be offered back the moment he returned with one himself. 

It did, however, strike Geralt as odd that Jaskier’s attention hadn’t yet left the throng of townsfolk, travelers, and tradesmen. His leg bounced against the floor for several seconds and then stopped suddenly, as though a great conscious effort had been made to quell the restlessness.

“Probably,” Geralt said. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest and let his own gaze flit over the crowd, letting his eyes linger only briefly on certain individuals that had caught his attention in their short time here; he noted a human man in a dark woollen traveling cloak fastened with a silver brooch, who sat near one of the tavern’s dirt-crusted windows with his fingers drumming nervously atop the table; a woman with oil-black hair pulled in a tight curl against the top of her head with lips so red they couldn’t have been anything but painted on, who had spent the last several minutes hastily marking something in charcoal on a piece of parchment; and a dwarf with a plaited beard and a pinky finger cut down to the first knuckle on his left hand, who was doing quite a good job at concealing the furtive looks he kept shooting the corner where they sat. 

Geralt had few friends in Gors Velen, but he had fewer enemies.

“Acquaintances of yours, Jaskier?”

Jaskier brushed a few crumbs off the table and did his best to feign interest in what was left of Geralt’s mashed potatoes as he got a better look. “I don’t recall seeing the dwarf in my travels, though he looks like he’s seen better days... the cloaked man looks suspicious enough, but so does everyone else who bothers to dress himself for the road. Actually, yes, I’ve seen him, can you see the stripes on his pants? Don’t make it so obvious that you’re looking, Geralt, he’s getting up to leave... is he walking behind this side...? Okay, keep your voice down. I remember seeing him when we walked in. He had a, a, some sort of strange accent when he ordered his drink, not exactly northern, but not recognizably southern. Ah, ahem, I’m quite pleased to hear you say so, Geralt, if only—oh! Excuse me, I didn’t see you standing there.”

He startled as though he’d only just noticed the black-haired woman with the red lips approaching their table. His grin gave away nothing of the hushed conversation that had just taken place, and hardly betrayed it as a blustery distraction. Geralt tried not to smile at Jaskier’s change of pace, as he knew that it would be more unsettling for the woman if he did.

“I’m so sorry for interrupting you in conversation, Mister Jaskier, but I simply had to tell you how captivating and arousing your performance was,” she purred. 

Jaskier was suddenly so attentive that Geralt fully expected he would later complain of a pulled muscle. The woman—a girl, he noted, possibly no older than twenty—extended a well-manicured hand that smelled of oakmoss. Jaskier took it in both of his own. “Oh, _arousing_ , that’s–why, thank you, my dear, that’s so sweet of you to say, would you like an auto—oh, Geralt, you don’t have to leave—“

“You must be... the famed Witcher I’ve heard so much about,” the woman said. Her voice matched the smoky quality of her eye shadow, which had been as elaborately and liberally applied as the colour on her lips. The rouge on her cheeks was indistinguishable from—and, upon later reflection, may actually have been—a genuine blush. “The White Wolf, Jaskier calls you, is that right?”

“You’ve got the wrong dog I’m afraid,” Geralt said, not unkindly. “But you’re welcome to my seat.”

“Please, sir, forgive me, I don’t wish to disturb your supper. I only wished to pay compliments to your talented companion, whose excellent talents I had the pleasure of seeing some weeks back.”

Geralt had already risen from his chair and moved around the table, but he didn’t miss the way one of Jaskier’s hands slipped below the table and out of sight. He could hear the faint crinkle of parchment and could smell it, too. even over the oakmoss and the gravy and the jam.

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of any payments or pleasures. Jaskier,” he said by way of farewell, and promptly made for the door, leaving his dear friend inside the tavern for the one he’d left in the street.

The Silver Heron boasted one of the best bathhouses in Gors Velen, according to anybody in the port city who had ever thought to bathe in anything other than the briny waters that crashed against the rocky coast. It was, all things considered, Jaskier’s dream location, and no wonder he’d dragged Geralt there first. The Heron contained steam rooms frequented by wealthy young women who sweated daintily, pools of rosemary-scented water which one could luxuriate in or lounge beside, and soft linens for draping oneself in with varying degrees of modesty; one could enjoy a day of luxury spent snacking on an array of fruits and local delicacies, drinking rich red and golden wines from sparkling glasses refilled from elegant carafes. 

Geralt cared for none of these luxuries, and settled for a smaller, quieter, and less conspicuous inn far from the bustling mid-city districts. His tastes were less refined and his standards easily met: he paid for a single, plain bed, a bath with water that simply steamed and contained no particular perfumes or scented salts, and towels that were old and tough as leather. The gruel he would pass on. The ale he didn’t.

Alone at last, still thinking of the horror that would cross Jaskier’s face if he knew what standards Geralt had settled for even after acquiring some spare cash, eased himself into the water and tipped his head back. He closed his eyes and opened his ears to the surrounding city, ignoring the quiet murmurs of the patrons and the upbeat fiddling of the minstrel he had passed, a gnome who had dressed as though he were attending a banquet and who had left his hat upturned in the floor for donations. Without imbibing any special concoction and with the fiddle as loud and obnoxious as fiddles could often be in the next room, Geralt could hardly focus on the sound of a cat yowling a street over, let alone pick out the familiar sound of lute strings twanging and reverberating several streets away, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t listening for Jaskier in particular. He listened instead for the people who had taken such an interest in his companion, in the event that their attention had been disguised and was intended for Geralt all along, but as time passed he detected no sign of the woman who’d approached Jaskier in the tavern, no heavy dwarven footsteps, nor the hushed footfalls and whispering woollen cloak of a traveller attempting to conceal his approach. He detected nothing at all.

Geralt’s amulet rested against his bare chest. The metal grew warm from the steam and water, and lay mercifully silent and still. He was, at least for now, alone. 

Still, he listened for a lute.

When the first sign of activity outside the room caught his attention, Geralt wondered if he’d managed to fall asleep; after cleaning himself, he’d settled back and tuned out the fiddle to the best of his abilities and allowed his mind to wander through memory, and had apparently managed to pass enough time to cool the bath-water. Now he was fully alert, considering the amount of time it would take for him to move from the bath to his clothing—and sword—but he quickly recognized the sound of boots on the wooden floor, and he even caught the distinctive twang of a lute being bumped around inside its case.

It was no surprise to him when Jaskier stepped inside. It was almost a relief.

Over the course of the indeterminable amount of time Geralt had spent soaking it appeared Jaskier had, whether out of paranoia, practicality, or something entirely different, changed his clothing; now he was the one dressed for travel, or at least for skulking about the alleyways of the city without drawing too much attention or being in any way memorable. The dark cape which he unfastened from his shoulders was one that Geralt distinctly recalled leaving with Roach outside, but his clothing was plain, nondescript, mostly devoid of embossments and without unnecessary puffiness. The distinctive stitching betrayed his shirt as a garment that would have been found only in the larger cities of the north. Novigrad, if Geralt had to guess. His pants were dusty at the ankle and could have come from anywhere. He could have passed for any old vagrant, had he not carried the lute with him.

Geralt was proud. Jaskier must have learned a thing or two lately about dodging pursuers, but it was still nice to think he’d picked up the habit from Geralt himself.

“Oh, good, you’re still here,” Jaskier said, as though he hadn’t just discovered Geralt playing the nude needle in a very large haystack of bathhouses. Geralt watched him through one half-open eye as he placed his things on the table where a few candles had slowly dwindled in size—including the bag of coin he’d dropped on the table before, which sounded more or less lighter to Geralt, though whether from paying off or paying up he couldn’t yet discern.

“I haven’t moved. How did you find me?”

Jaskier shrugged cheerfully. He withdrew the leatherbound journal which he carried with him on his journeys and placed it on the table the way one would a newborn child. “I thought maybe you’d grown tired of me and gone on your way, but it turned out that neither the toll collector nor the stable boy had seen you, so I asked myself where _I_ would go if I needed a bath and went in the opposite direction, asking questions to any merchant or beggar with a decent mind along the way.”

Geralt closed his eyes and hummed. It paid to be perspicacious in a city like this.

“Anyway, I’m glad I caught up with you before you left. This is the last place I expected to run into you, as I said earlier, but I’m glad to see you’re in good cheer… looking healthy… well paid for any recent adventures, I hope… me, myself, I’ve been so busy with...”

Geralt opened one eye again, but Jaskier seemed too busy removing his shoes and listing the numerous things that had demanded his attention in the last several months to realize that he was being glared at.

“So why are you here?”

“Here? Here in this teeny little inn, you mean, playing catch-up with a dear friend, or here in—?”

“In Gors Velen. Everything stinks of fish and ozone. What’s here for you?”

“Well, you are, obviously. And _everything_ smells of seafood and sorcerers along the coast.” Jaskier’s socks were off, and Geralt continued to watch him disrobe only because he still found it difficult to believe that he could walk into a seaside fortress-city and somehow, entirely by coincidence, be accosted on the street by the same man he’d last seen nearly four hundred miles north. “Unless you mean to say I don’t seem the sort of person to spend time in a place like this, in which case I would say... well, no, you’re right, I’d far prefer The Silver Heron—ugh, the _steam_ , Geralt, you have no idea what you’re missing—but I think those were groat pieces they tossed in that bag after all, stingy mongrels. I could really use—ah, well, let’s not discuss the supplementing of my income until the sun’s up. Is the water still warm?”

“Barely.”

“Well, make room because I’m—no, don’t get out, I’m gonna—yeah, okay, fine,” Jaskier said, frowning faintly as Geralt lifted himself up and out of the bath. He held out a towel, and Geralt simply slung it over his shoulder and took a few wet steps toward the table by the door.

“Is all of this new?”

Jaskier made a face and nudged the side of the wooden tub with his foot. “Looks like the wood’s been treated recently, maybe, but I don’t think it’s new. No mold growing in it at least…”

“The spying, not the damned bath.”

Geralt’s growl seemed to take Jaskier by surprise; he turned away from the bath and gave Geralt a sharp look, and that took Geralt by surprise in turn. He’d seen more than a few strange expressions on Jaskier’s face, as he was especially prone to making those under duress or with his clothes off, but this was a new one. Geralt felt suddenly as if he were the one being accused instead.

“Spying? I have no idea what you mean. What a strange thing to say…” 

All at once, the unusual air about him was gone. Jaskier had settled into the water with a sigh and wore the blissful expression of a man who had been forced to wash himself in streams for at least a week. Unselfconscious, he slid down until his knees poked out of the water and his head was half-submerged. Jaskier was surprisingly larger than he looked at first glance; he took up nearly as much space in the wooden tub as Geralt himself did, and somehow seemed twice as comfortable despite the water being half as warm.

Geralt grunted and looked sideways at the clothing that Jaskier had left on the table. The faint scent of oakmoss still clung to the fabric, even though he had obviously taken great care to change before setting off from his cozy spot at the Heron.

“That woman.”

“Woman? Oh, the, ah, lady that you left me with? Beautiful, wasn’t she? Yes, it’s always nice to meet a fan...”

“Did you allow her the pleasure of paying you compliments before you came?”

“I, er. Sorry, water in my ears. What?”

Jaskier swallowed. His eyes glittered in the candlelight when Geralt glanced expectantly at him. “Oh, _oh _, I understand. No, we didn’t—pfft, seriously, is that why you left? Jealousy? Oh, I hope you haven’t been listening to any of those rumours about me. You know how people talk about anything and everything, especially when they don’t want to talk about themselves.”__

__Geralt reached over the table and pulled Jaskier’s shirt to his nose, but he knew from the scent that it was the wrong garment. It was the pants he wanted._ _

__“Anyway, she only wanted to say… not sure those’ll fit you, though they’re remarkably stretchy in the waist,” Jaskier said from behind him. Geralt could feel his eyes burning holes into his back. “Why are you, ah… wait, Geralt...”_ _

__It took Geralt a moment to find the hidden pocket within the lining of the fabric, but there was no mistaking the crinkle of parchment once his fingers ran across it; the charcoal letter had been carefully folded, so well-hidden that Geralt wouldn’t have detected it by sight alone. He unfolded it carefully and mentally paid some compliments of his own to the author, whose penmanship was as neat and legible as Jaskier’s own._ _

__“A letter from a fan?”_ _

__“Please don’t read that. I’ll tell you what it says, it’s a–a business proposition, she slipped it into my hand as you were leaving, but it’s only a request for, for...”_ _

__Geralt studied the parchment. It appeared to be little more than a brief yet honeyed ode to a piece that she—assuming the woman with the red lips was indeed the author and not simply the messenger—had heard Jaskier sing at a court in Kovir several weeks prior, followed by a badly-concealed and obviously coded message that seemed to indicate a time and location, the name and significance of which would ultimately prove insignificant to Geralt when Jaskier admitted its meaning later in the night._ _

__“Are you going to accept?”_ _

__“Accept what?”_ _

__“This proposition.”_ _

__“No, I’ve sworn off of, er, proposing,” Jaskier said as Geralt leaned closer to the light of the dying candle. The water sloshed gently but anxiously around him, possibly eager to make its escape in the event that Jaskier decided he had some important secrets to protect after all. “Geralt, I know some boundaries between us have often been crossed and, in most cases, blurred entirely, but there are some things that really should remain between a man and…”_ _

__Geralt raised his hand, arranged his fingers, and the candle flame burned impossibly bright. He turned the parchment over in his hands, studying the oddly-textured back of it closely._ _

__“Would you mind if I burned this?”_ _

__“Yes. Yes! I would mind if you burned my personal belongings,” Jaskier said crossly. Geralt glanced back and saw that he now sat upright, arms resting on the edge of the tub as if he were prepared to leap up and tear the sheet from Geralt’s hands. “Please put that down. Thank you. In the interest of full transparency, that letter actually is rather important to me, I can’t begin to tell you how… it would wound me if anything were to… hap… happen… ”_ _

__He shuddered, suddenly, and went pale as Geralt picked up his journal._ _

__“What was it you were saying about supplementing your income?”_ _

__“Geralt.”_ _

__Geralt narrowed his eyes, thinking of the pen and ink that Jaskier often carried on his person, the notes he often scribbled in his book before snapping it triumphantly shut. He’d always assumed it was poetry that Jaskier drafted. Now he wasn’t so certain._ _

__“If I burn this book, am I burning state secrets, too?”_ _

__“I don’t know anything about state secrets, but I know all of my songs and—please, my _privacy_ , if you don’t mind.”_ _

__He reached out a hand, but Geralt had already opened the journal and was now flipping through pages of carefully inked, redacted, and re-inked lyrics and poetry; most everything Jaskier was inspired by was contained within journals like these, which Geralt knew only because he seemed to turn up with a fresh one every few weeks, so he also knew to skim over the passages about peach-fuzz hair on velvety skin and arses chiseled from marble, over stanzas detailing sweat glistening on valleys and peaks formed by the human body, and even to his surprise a few pages’ worth of moderately skilled sketches: people, faceless ones mostly, muses without identities etched in the same static poses that students at the Oxenfurt Academy would have viewed their nude subjects in… but some were different, some sketched roughly and some with refined, elegant lines with distinctive characteristics._ _

__Some Geralt even recognized._ _

__He paused at one portrait in particular—a messy, smudged study of shadow and light falling over a bare, muscled torso, a nondescript circular medallion dangling tastefully from a chain—and frowned down at it for a long moment._ _

__“A spy and an artist,” he murmured. Had he not been so irritated, he would have been downright impressed._ _

__“There’s that word again, _spy_. I can guarantee I’m not spying on anyone, least of all you, if that’s what concerns you—”_ _

__“What concerns me,” Geralt interrupted, snapping the book shut once he was satisfied it contained nothing of import, “is that you’re carrying and exchanging sensitive information—”_ _

__“It’s not _sensitive_ information, per se, it’s just _uncommon_. There’s a difference. And just because I know who and what to listen to and when and where to do it doesn’t mean I’m working for some king or secret service.”_ _

__Geralt stared down at him. Jaskier crossed his forearms on the edge of the tub and rested his chin on them, the very picture of innocence, his expression all but daring the most confident man to question his logic. He wasn’t even taking this seriously, damn him. That was the worst part._ _

__“And you have to exchange it secretively, writing in code and in pressure-marks? In Elder speech? Is the difference between sensitive and uncommon which government pays you more? Which king is least likely to throw you in jail for gathering intelligence during foreign assemblies or… wherever you’ve been?”_ _

__“Can you please drop the subject and come over here? Preferably without accusing me of any of that nasty business. I need you to do that lovely little thing with your fingers again and heat this water with a small fire—”_ _

__“I think I should be on my way,” Geralt said. He cast a final withering look at Jaskier’s journal and, ignoring Jaskier’s noises of indignation and protest, tore the offending page from it, did the lovely little thing with his fingers Jaskier so loved, and left the page to curl and blacken to cinders on the table._ _

__“Geralt—wait, I know you’re not thinking rationally right now, would you please stop and listen to me for one single moment?”_ _

__Jaskier was halfway out of the tub and precariously close to slipping on the floor, but he was in luck. Geralt still needed to dress before he departed, and Jaskier intercepted him on his way to his clothing, drawing up to his full height while somehow assuming the placating air of a stable boy attempting to calm a rogue steed._ _

__“Okay, let me be honest and forthright. You’re absolutely right, this isn’t the most lucrative or ethical of businesses, but I assure you—I _assure_ you, and you can count on my word here, Geralt, that the note you so kindly threatened to burn will start no wars, jail no man, elf, dwarf, halfling, or gnome, blackmail no husband or wife or king or queen—it contains sensitive information, yes, but it was delivered to me at my request, regarding a personal matter of mine which I would prefer not to get into...”_ _

__Jaskier’s hand touched Geralt’s chest. His palm was wet with bath-water, and his eyes moved rapidly over Geralt’s face, appraising his expression with the lightning speed of a man who had spent most of his life reacting swiftly in situations of increasingly terrible odds._ _

__“Get into it,” Geralt said, keeping his voice low. “Quickly.”_ _

__Jaskier took a slow breath._ _

__“I’ve been providing… oh, how should I put this… for some individuals who lack certain… experiences… or persons of particular tastes… portraits of certain, ah…”_ _

__His eyes no longer nervously danced over Geralt’s face. They were fixed downward instead, where the fingers of his free hand brushed against Geralt’s stomach and were moving lower._ _

___You fool _, Geralt thought. _You complete and utter fool_.__ _ _

____“I’d really love to apologize for what you saw, but as you know I am a man of fine taste, of not just poetry but art, and the truth is, Geralt… my business has never been better than when you’re involved in it.”_ _ _ _

____As Jaskier spoke Geralt felt his fingers, cool and wet from the bath, close around him as he spoke, and he found himself thankful that the candles had burned so low; Jaskier’s gaze had once again risen to meet Geralt’s and had, at some point in his ridiculous attempt at seduction or distraction or both, become molten. Had Geralt’s mutations not prevented him from blushing at the thought of being immortalized in ink on parchments and papers, his face would have provided enough heat and light for the entire inn._ _ _ _

____“Tell me you’re not running an illicit business based on pornography.”_ _ _ _

____“Clearly not. I’m running an illicit business based on _you_. Which you knew about, by the way. You just didn’t realize it was halfway profitable, unlike slaughtering creatures, which is… well…”_ _ _ _

____“As profitable as minstreling to moneyless mongrels. Can you not—mm—find a better subject?”_ _ _ _

____“Please stop trying to deter me from seeking business opportunities while your balls are in my hand. I refuse to apologize for sharing my talents, and you know I already find you utterly and indescribably attractive, you’re like a… hmmm…”_ _ _ _

____Geralt’s back flattened unexpectedly against the wall. Though Jaskier was no rougher with him than a kitten learning to bat at a dangling thread, Geralt still felt his breath stutter out of his lungs, and with it went the anger that had risen at the thought of being observed and reported about, accompanied from village to village and kingdom to kingdom for reasons that had nothing to do with companionship and everything to do with government interference or intelligence-gathering, and at generally being fucked with by the one person who ever genuinely seemed to enjoy Geralt’s company. And who was enjoying something else of Geralt’s currently, with two hands instead of just one._ _ _ _

____He couldn’t be angry at a man for thinking up business ventures with the wrong head._ _ _ _

____Jaskier sighed against the curve of Geralt’s jaw. His mouth felt like a brand, hotter on Geralt’s skin than even the bath had been, and the calluses on his fingertips sent a shiver along the length of Geralt’s spine. “Oh, if only I could paint that expression, immortalize it in a… gorgeous frame of… mahogany… walnut… some sort of hard wood...”_ _ _ _

____“You’re welcome to try, but I’ll break your fingers if you do,” Geralt promised, rocking his hips forward, and Jaskier grinned against his mouth in a way which communicated clearly that he believed it to be true._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____For the second time that evening Jaskier flopped down carelessly next to Geralt, his cheeks flushed and his eyes closed in an expression that suggested complete and utter satisfaction. This time it _was_ of a spectacularly athletic and sexual nature, and this time Geralt was short of breath too, and he sought Jaskier’s backside with his hand as the poet snuggled closer, all loose limbs and dead weight and exaggerated, theatrical yawning._ _ _ _

____“Ah,” he sighed, stretching an arm over Geralt’s chest. “I can’t think of anything that tests the joints like that. You know, it always amazes me…”_ _ _ _

____“I know,” Geralt murmured._ _ _ _

____“Then you know that this is completely your fault. Every time I think we should stop meeting this way, you make me remember how… mm, _good_ it is when we reunite.”_ _ _ _

____Geralt wanted to ask precisely what Jaskier had intended to say, pausing as long as he had before settling on ‘good’, but he couldn’t think of an elegant way to phrase his question. It was hard to think of anything but the heat between his legs and the bone-deep satisfaction that had settled over him. And there were some things he liked not knowing._ _ _ _

____“Does that mean I’ll get a share of your future earnings, being such an inspiration to your work?”_ _ _ _

____“Ha. You think I should, ah, what is it they say? Spare a coin, spoil the witcher?”_ _ _ _

____“It only seems fair,” Geralt said, although he really thought the phrasing seemed a little unusual. “If I’m as profitable as your comfortable, meandering lifestyle suggests.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier lifted his chin from Geralt’s shoulder and a smile slid over his face; he looked a decade younger with his hair tousled and lying damp on his forehead, but his eyes were bright with the same mischief that he’d carried on their first journey together (and almost every single journey thereafter). “So you’ll partner with me? Endorse my work officially?”_ _ _ _

____“No. You’re lucky I’m not demanding a cut of your profits already.”_ _ _ _

____“Will you pretend you don’t know that I’m selling professional renderings of your arse?”_ _ _ _

____“If I come across another, whether in your care or someone else’s, I’ll make sure your professional rendering is professionally rendered ash.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Oh, fine. Will you stop accusing me of being some sort of undercover informant, at least, now that you know my secret communications correspond to the time and place in which I am to deliver my smouldering portraits?”_ _ _ _

_____You’re too damned quick for your own good_ , Geralt wanted to say. He still hadn’t shaken the memory of Jaskier’s whirling, energetic display and the ease with which he recalled details about members of the crowd when most bards would have been too caught up in their own performances—and how he’d continued watching them after, restless even with the adrenaline fading and his hard-earned reward resting safely in a pouch inside his shirt. _Too damned quick, too damned perceptive, and too damned good at getting into places where you shouldn’t be.__ _ _ _

____Knowing too much and bragging about it tended to make one a target; knowing too much and pretending to know too little was hardly better, in Geralt’s experience. But if there was one person who could theoretically know everything and speak about nothing..._ _ _ _

____“Just don’t get yourself into trouble,” Geralt said after a lengthy pause._ _ _ _

____Somewhere beyond the walls of the room they occupied, the gnomish minstrel’s fiddle had taken an intermission, and now began again at a different pace. Slow, sonorous violin cut mournfully through the air, and the corner of Jaskier’s mouth lifted._ _ _ _

____“You don’t need to worry about me… but I mean it, don’t call me a spy. It’s a terribly rude thing to call someone, especially one who sings such sweet praises about you, don’t you think? Unless you’d like me to spy on you, which I’d be very happy to do…?”_ _ _ _

____It took almost no time at all for Geralt to decide he liked the idea of kissing Jaskier better than answering the numerous questions he’d posed. He closed his eyes and tasted the faintest hint of gravy and the more recent hint of something not ordinarily served by innkeepers on his tongue. Jaskier sighed into his mouth and shifted against him, moving so softly and sweetly to the music that Geralt soon forgot about the question, the portraits, the spying, and everything but the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers playing the lines of his palm like violin-strings._ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> "You're incomparable, like a..." - Bo Burnham, _what._ (2013)
> 
> If you haven't yet read anything from The Witcher series, please do yourself a favour. Dandelion is a delightful liar, and nobody can prove with 100% certainty that he's not a provider of pornography. ;)


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